Runaway
by ThatClutzsarahh
Summary: Olivia Dunham isn't even his type.


**hokay, i felt the need to write one Peter centric fic and then a Olivia one. THis is the peter centric fic. I'm getting sick of reading stories of Peter crawling back to Olivia and feeling guilty. I'm also sick of here him say "I'm sorry" over and over again. So i felt this story is what my response would be to that. Maybe. Anyway, it's rated T/M since it's a mix of both.**

**All mistakes are my own. and i own nothing.**

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It was just a break up.

Just a _fucking_ break up.

There was nothing special about Olivia Dunham, Peter told himself again, nothing special about the walking blonde haired heartache machine in pantsuits with cold and callous eyes. Olivia Dunham wasn't even his _type, _he shouldn't have even considered her for _anything_, let alone _dating_ the shrew of a woman. Yes, Olivia Dunham was a shrew of womanly existence, a barbed wire fence hell bent on piercing up hearts and bleeding them dry. Which is probably part of the reason Peter was so bitter towards her.

His heart hangs on that fence.

But in all seriousness, it's just another woman. Olivia will always be another woman. Of course circumstances are anything _but_ normal within their _nonexistent_ relationship and therefore the hanging of his heart upon the fence was _completely _accidental. Right? Yes, yes, he tells himself constantly, that is exactly what happened, all of this was an _accident_, she _accidently_ burrowed her way into his heart and created a fluffy nest in which she lives.

So why can't he seem to find the power to rid her of that home?

Of course it has to do with the fact he can't just get up and leave again. His coping mechanism had always been flight, to turn and flee from anything he didn't like, anything he didn't _want_ to deal with. So rationally, he didn't _want_ Olivia anymore since she no longer wanted him, and he had no reason to stay. His universe-hopping kidnapper of a father didn't even get a say this time around. But there is no where to flee _to_ anymore, because Olivia is _always_ there, under his skin, in his head, nestled in his _heart_. There is not a corner in this universe or the next universe that he can settle in and feel completely void of the blonde woman that overran his life.

Which he guesses is part of the reason he is _so_ angry right now. What gave her the right?

She is nothing new, nothing special. Special Agent Olivia Dunham, that's all she is to him, just a woman with a badge and gun. She has no personality, Peter tells himself again and again, she has not a heart nor soul. _Special Agent_ Olivia Dunham is just like every other woman he'd never want to date. _Special Agent_ Olivia Dunham has no sense of humor. _Special Agent_ Olivia Dunham lacks the heart-warming smile of a beautiful woman. _Special Agent_ Olivia Dunham wears blacks and grays because she herself lacks the warmth found in _his_ clothing. _Special Agent _Olivia Dunham is unlovable.

And yet bashing on Olivia Dunham has only seemed to make him feel worse. The bottom of a bottle looked oddly inviting.

But drowning would do no good. At least drowning now would do no good. What would come of it, a bar fight, a one night stand, or worse? And this pity party seems to be an awful one at best yet he remains in wallow because it's better than the other options. He has too much pride to act like a lost puppy and crawl to her, beg for her. And still he feels this strangely strong compulsion to get down on his knees and beg her back. And it's a feeling he'd like to forget.

It was just another break up. But _dammit_ it wasn't even a break up. And that's how he ended up here.

Peter Bishop likes to fight. He likes to fight to _win._ He likes the feeling in his veins when the adernaile rushes through and how he sees red as he splatters a man's face into a million pieces. And of course he likes to fight because he's _good_ at it. He's _always_ been good at it. With his fists, he figures, he words couldn't be any clearer. With his feet, his knows there is no misunderstanding of exactly what he was feeling. And when he towards over a man's body there is this _power_, this _power_ that Special Agent _Olivia Dunham_ has robbed him of. It's this _release_, this _rush_ that only fighting or a seriously rough fucking could ever get out of him.

After his fourth fight of the night, Peter's back is glistening with a heavy sweat underneath the bright warehouse lights and he is hunch over, arms hanging heavy as he dodges another fist thrown to him. The jeers and cheers are mingling among the crowd and somewhere in the back Big Eddie is smirking is termite infested smirk. His best fighter has returned, a machine of a man with so much pent up hate that he could take a serious beating to his face and still manage to stay upright and fight. Peter Bishop could make him a fortune in one night. And it was only midnight now, and there was barely a scratch on his face.

There was a lot of pent up anger in his body. This release was perfect for him. He swung again, this fist landing like a sledgehammer to the ribs, and he felt them give way to his force. The man got an arm around his upper arm but could not find a spot to hit. And when Peter's knee connected with his gut the man crumpled to the ground in a heap of skin and bone, blood on his face and pouring from his nose. Peter felt the power in his veins, this is what he _needed_, he _needed_ this more than anything. And with the lift of his leather soled shoe, Peter brings it across the man's face and the shuddering crack doesn't even bother him for one second before the man remains motionless on the ground.

He turns to face where his towel boy stands, eyes to the ground and wiping his mouth with his hand and staring down at the red smeared on it. The crowd was full of cheers and the sound of shuffling money. He saw someone hold out a water bottle and he drank it, tossing it away before reaching for the towel that was in his towel boy's hand. He snatched it, but the boy didn't let go of it. Not having the time or patience for some _fool_, Peter growled and snatched the boy's wrist, intent on snapping it in two. And his hand clenched around it and froze. It was small, tiny and so very _female._

_Oh fuck me._

His mind clearly was toying with him. From all the anger and release that he was unleashing on every victim, his mind chose a manifestation of the very thing he was escaping reality for. The not so very Special Agent Olivia Dunham held onto the towel with his blood soaked into the fibers. Hair hidden underneath her gray sweatshirt hood she looked up at him with a clenched jaw, defiant eyes and a stance that told him, _you could fight the best fighter in the world and bring him down but I'll kick your ass any day._

This clearly was him hallucinating.

He tried to remember taking a hard enough blow to the head to give him at least a headache, but could not remember one that hard. Maybe he really was hallucinating. He'd rather not think of the other option that she _may_ truly be standing there. _Aw hell,_ what does he care? She left him, not the other way around. And she didn't even leave him. _They never even had a chance._ He ripped the towel from her tiny hands and scrubbed his skin, watching already as the next man stepped forward. He was bigger, but with the rage that Peter felt right now, the rage that _she_ actually had the balls to show up or his mind was _actually_ cowardly enough to manifest her was flooding through his hot boiling blood. He tossed the towel back and she still remained, either a very good hallucination or she was really there.

"What are you doing here," Peter snarled at her, either sounding crazy for talking to himself or like a half mad dog yelling at the hidden figure. Olivia looked him dead in the eye, unafraid, _angry._ _Pools of angry green seas,_ he thought bitterly. The thought to spit down at her feet flickered through his mind once before being shoved roughly by an Eddie goon into the center. He didn't let his eyes flick back to the woman he _hated, _he _hated_ so very much.

Throw after throw, punch after punch, an elbow here and a knee there, Peter Bishop felt power course through his veins and leak out his pores, running down his body like sweat. And it all felt so good, _so fucking _good. If Olivia wanted to see this, let her, this is who he was. _She_ didn't matter. _She _never mattered. Each thrown punch was proof that he believed that. And when his opponent finally fell unconscious underneath his large forearm Peter felt that he believed himself. _She_ was nothing to him.

Until he turned around.

She gripped his towel still and her stoic features showed that she had nothing to say to him. _Then why the fuck was she here?_ He stalked toward her, a heavy swagger laced in his stature that he'd let return to his step. He had no burdens _here_, here was all him, a man with a serous amount of pent up anger that he could send off through waves in fights that he could win. He was a machine here, a machine with the lack of love or romance or _anything_ Olivia Dunham thought she could slyly pull from him. Romance was for men without a backbone, and his was carved from diamond.

"I said,' he growled at her, ripping the towel from her with a snarling glance, "What the _hell_ are you doing _here_?"

"I'm here for you," she tried to say to him, as if she actually meant it.

"You," he answered, "Are my boss, what I do outside of work will _never_ concern you."

"I am your friend-"

"No, you're not," Peter hissed at her, "You didn't _want_ me."

Peter tossed the towel at her feet and turned away. She had nothing to say. It was true. _She didn't want_ him. He shoved past her roughly and toward the back of the warehouse where a private room sat. It was the locker room. Eddie would find him there if he needed him. He pushed the door open with force and headed for the sink to see the damage done to his face. It wasn't a surprise when she appeared behind him. He wanted her to leave, to just _fucking_ leave.

"That's not what I said," she said quietly although with a force behind her words.

"It's what you meant," Peter answered flicking on the sink. She clearly wasn't leaving without a fight.

"You don't know that," she answered, "How could you possibly know that?"

"Don't start with me Agent Dunham," he said bitterly, droplets of water falling off his face.

"What are you doing, Peter?" she asked.

"What I'm good at," he growled. He didn't answer her question, but hell he didn't _have _to answer her.

"Peter," she said, her eyes never leaving his face. It wasn't supposed to be _this_ way.

"Dammit _Olivia,_" he growled, spinning around to look at her. His face is black and blue, there is swelling in some places and he has a spilt lip, "What do you want _from_ me? You have everything already."

"No," she said angrily to him, "I don't have everything."

"Oh," Peter said with a snort, "Well there's a shock."

Olivia's glance darkened. "Stop flattering yourself with your pity, _Peter._ You can suffer all you want, but it's your _own_ fault-"

"I can blame you," he said angrily. Her eyes flashed from angry to hurt. They flashed from hurt to wells of hot tears and Peter had to look away.

_Well fuck me_.

It wouldn't matter if she were the ugliest woman in the world. It wouldn't matter if she were the prettiest woman in the world. It wouldn't matter if she were a sister, a mother, a wife or cousin. She was a woman. Peter hated to see women cry. Tears of a woman meant he was everything he shouldn't have been. He was the cause of the beautiful species to tear up and cry, hot and wet waterfalls of tears. He had always sworn to himself he would not be that kind of man. And yet here he was, beaten and bloodied with a beautiful specimen crying silently as she breaks apart.

And it's all. His. Fault.

So he looked at her. He _really_ looked at her. Her beautiful and shiny blonde hair was dull and flat, the ends frayed. He looked at her skin, pale and clingy, sticking to her bones like there wasn't anything underneath to hold it up. She looked sick. She looked injured. She looked like she was…_dying._ Peter squeezed his eyes shut, hard. For the first time that night he felt pain. The feeling that kept him afloat was wearing off. He could only escape reality for so long. Invincibility was a myth, no matter how long and hard he chased for it. He was venerable. Olivia had taught him that. He can only hide behind his pride and ego for so long. He cannot escape reality.

"Olivia," he said, "Just go."

She had left by the time he had turned back around. He swore loudly, smashing his fist into the mirror that was by his back. The splintering of the mirror on his fist hurt. A lot. He _hated_ Olivia. Olivia made him weak. Olivia made him _feel._ Olivia made him _hurt._ Olivia made him _break_. Olivia made him _angry_. Olivia made him _cry._ Olivia made him _rage. Olivia made him._ _Olivia was him._ And when Olivia Dunham walked away, Peter was not Peter. Peter was_ incomplete._ But an Eddie goon poked his head in and told him to go. Peter couldn't complete his own argument. He couldn't convince himself again that Olivia didn't matter. He didn't have the time. _He didn't have the reasons_. Peter Bishop lost the next fight.

And when he woke up on the warehouse floor, cold and alone, beaten and broken Peter realized this was so much more than just a break up.

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